Jeans

There is comfort in
well worn jeans,
putting them on,
is an embrace
almost like real love.

They make me
comfortable with myself,
and something more
than I really am—
lumps flattened
pounds moved around—
it’s not exactly like lying,
more like stretching the truth.

There are those who
prefer sheep wool’s
tiny itching fibers,
sweating like pinched
abbots in sackcloth—
but where is it written
leg sweat saves souls?

I guess I’ll live and die
in well worn jeans,
freshened now and then
by soapy water and a dryer—
softened by extra wear
where they cover the derriere—
totally in tune with tomorrow.